The Burning Chambers

by Kate Mosse

  Michel had not sought out Joubert since the afternoon of their release. Neither wished to be reminded of what they had endured. Now, he could think of nothing more than that he must find him. He had betrayed Joubert and he would never forgive himself for it. This was the corrosive guilt that had driven him at dawn to rue du Marché, but he had found the shop closed and shuttered. Now, after what he had just heard in the airless room above the tavern, he had to try harder. The sands were running through the hour glass. There was little time left to make amends.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘Did you catch him?’ asked Devereux, exchanging a look with Crompton. ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘No,’ Piet said. ‘Should he have done?’

  ‘Michel always lets his heart rule his head,’ Crompton said dismissively. ‘He will come around.’

  Piet was suddenly sick of the pack of them. Schoolboys, playing at conspiracy, he had no patience for it. Dreaming of war and glory when he suspected none of them had seen action on the battlefield. They did not yet understand there was no glory in death.

  ‘When the time comes – if the time comes – Michel will be the most steadfast of us all.’ Piet knew his words sounded like a rebuke, but he did not care.

  But now the moment was upon him, Piet was oddly reluctant to conclude the deal. The matter left an ugly taste in his mouth. But, they needed funds in Toulouse and Carcassonne was prepared to buy what they had to sell. Soldiers, weapons, building materials and bribes, the cost of caring for the hundreds of refugees who came in need of food and shelter. All of it came at a cost. It was too late for him to have a crisis of conscience now.

  ‘Shall we to business? Time is short.’

  ‘Of course,’ Crompton said, and turned to Alphonse Bonnet, who stumbled to the corner of the chamber and worried at a loose floorboard. He pulled out a brown hessian bag from the cavity and handed it to his master.

  ‘Here,’ Crompton said. ‘It is all there. The price as agreed.’

  Piet met his gaze. ‘You will forgive me if I confirm the sum. We would not wish for there to be any later misunderstanding.’

  Crompton’s expression hardened, but he did not object. Piet emptied the gold deniers onto the table, counting the coins back into the bag one by one.

  ‘All there, my thanks.’

  Crompton gave a curt nod. ‘And now your side of the bargain.’

  Piet took the satchel from his shoulder and laid it carefully flat on the table. He watched his own hand reach out, saw himself slowly unfastening the buckle and reaching inside. The air cracked with expectation.

  Piet’s fingers took hold of the delicate fabric within and he drew it out into the light. The pale cloth seemed to shimmer, transforming the grey gloom of the modest room into a place of light. The silk warp and the linen weft felt so delicate in his hands. He saw, as if for the first time, the delicate ornamental stitches embroidered along the length of the Shroud. The exquisite Kufic calligraphy spoke to Piet of nothing, and yet everything. For an instant, he felt he could almost smell the chill of the tomb and the exotic scents of the Holy Land, the olive groves and the bitter herbs of the sepulchre.

  Except, it could not be . . . Time seemed to speed up again.

  ‘The Shroud of Antioch,’ Devereux muttered, his eyes greedy. ‘I have waited long to see it.’

  The relic had been carried to the Eglise Saint-Taur in Toulouse in 1392, by Crusaders returning from Antioch. A small fragment of the cloth, within which the body of Christ had been laid to rest in the sepulchre before his Resurrection, the Shroud was said to have worked countless miracles. It was the holiest of relics, one that would confer power on any who had possession of it.

  ‘Here, Piet said roughly. ‘Take it. Use it for the good of our cause.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘There,’ Minou said, dropping the last strip of muslin into the bowl of water and vinegar. The blood, rinsed from the cloth, turning the water pink. ‘I do not think there will be any infection, the cut is not deep.’

  Madame Noubel was sitting in a low chair in the bookshop with a horsehair blanket folded across her knees. Minou had locked the door and fastened the shutters. So far, they had not been disturbed.

  ‘That such a thing should happen, Minou, in broad daylight in the Bastide. I scarce believe it.’

  ‘I think it was an accident,’ Minou replied carefully, ‘though the captain’s behaviour was reprehensible.’

  ‘The world has gone mad,’ Madame Noubel sighed, shrugging her heavy shoulders. ‘But how proud your mother would have been of you. You showed great courage. Florence always stood firm. She always did what was right.’

  ‘Anyone would have done the same.’

  ‘Except they did not. People think only of their own skins these days. Not that I blame them.’ She shook her head. ‘Monsieur Sanchez is keeping an eye on my premises, you say?’

  ‘He is. Charles is with him.’

  Madame Noubel raised her eyebrows. ‘More of a hindrance than a help, I’d have thought.’

  ‘Try not to worry,’ Minou said, folding the soiled muslin strips ready to take home for Rixende to bleach and wash.

  ‘How goes it with your father?’ Madame Noubel asked. ‘I have not seen him these past weeks.’

  Minou was on the point of deflecting the question, as she usually did, then stopped. She did not want to be disloyal, but she was in need of a friend to talk to.

  ‘In truth, and though I have spoken to no one of it, I am much concerned. My father returned from his travels in January much distracted and burdened by melancholy. I have never seen him so low in his spirits, at least not since my mother passed away.’

  Madame Noubel nodded. ‘He always did rely on Florence to give him strength. When you ask what ails him, what answer does he give?’

  ‘Sometimes, he denies there is anything amiss. Other times that it is no more than the rigours of the season. Certainly, he is plagued by soreness on his skin, but until this winter he was never so much afflicted by the dark and cold. He has not once set foot outside the house since his return.’

  ‘In four weeks! Not even to go to Mass?’

  ‘No, and he will not permit the priest to call upon him either.’

  ‘Might Bernard be concerned about the bookshop, especially after that trouble you had? Rents are always rising, times are hard. We are all struggling to make ends meet.’

  Minou frowned. ‘It is true our finances are much on his mind and he fears for Aimeric’s prospects. We cannot afford proper schooling, or the purchase of an army commission.’ She paused. ‘He is even talking of sending him to lodge with our aunt and her husband in Toulouse.’

  ‘Indeed!’ Madame Noubel’s eyebrows arched. ‘I was not aware the breach in the family had ever been healed.’

  ‘I am not sure it has,’ she said carefully, ‘and yet my father is quite resolved Aimeric should go.’ Minou picked at a loose thread on her skirts. ‘But I think there is something more.’

  The candle guttered in the brass holder on the table, casting a flickering shadow across Madame Noubel’s careworn face.

  ‘There are things in a man’s life that he cannot speak of to his children, even one so close to his heart as are you.’

  ‘I am nineteen! I’m not a child.’

  ‘Ah, Minou,’ Madame Noubel smiled, ‘whatever age you are, you will always be his daughter, his little girl. He cannot help but want to protect you. It is the way of things.’

  ‘I cannot bear to see him so burdened.’

  Madame Noubel sighed. ‘The suffering of those we love is harder to bear than anything we feel on our own behalf.’

  ‘I fear that I have, by some carelessness, lost his affection,’ Minou said softly.

  ‘Never. Not you. He loves you dearly. But if it will help to put your mind at rest, I could talk to him. He might confide in me.’

  Minou felt a glimmer of hope. ‘Would you? I think I could bear any misfortune, and find strength to face it, if on
ly I knew what was wrong. It is not knowing that weighs so heavily on my mind.’

  The old woman patted her arm. ‘That is settled, then. Do they not say that one good turn deserves another? Tell Bernard to expect me. I shall call upon him tomorrow after Mass.’ She placed her broad hands upon her knees, then stood up. ‘I should return home, if the soldiers are no longer there. See what those dogs have done to my house. Will you look?’

  Minou unbolted and opened the door, then leapt back.

  ‘Monsieur, you startled me!’

  A man was standing on the threshold. Dressed in black, with white ruff and cuffs, Minou’s first impression was that he might be a scholar. She saw it in the stooped cast of his neck, his pale complexion and the way he blinked at the light, screwing his eyes tight into his sockets, as if the world was too bright.

  ‘I regret the shop is closed,’ she said, recovering herself. ‘But if you might come back in an hour, I would be happy to help.’

  ‘I am not a customer. I seek Bernard Joubert.’ He looked up at the sign. ‘These are still his premises?’

  Minou pulled the door shut behind her, to shield Madame Noubel from his view.

  ‘Why should they not be, Monsieur?’

  He raised his hands in apology. ‘None, no reason at all. That is to say, in these times, things change so quickly . . . I am glad to hear it.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Is Bernard here? I would speak with him urgently.’

  ‘My father is not here. I manage the bookshop in his absence.’

  His cheeks suddenly reddened and he started to shake, so violently that Minou feared he would collapse on the step.

  ‘Monsieur, are you unwell?’

  ‘Your father, so you must be Marguerite. Or, rather, Minou. Bernard talked often of you.’

  She found a smile. ‘Then you have the advantage over me, Monsieur. You seem to know my name, but you have not given me the honour of telling me yours.’

  ‘My name does not matter, but I must speak with Bernard. I had thought to find him here. What hour will he return?’

  ‘The hours he keeps vary in winter,’ Minou said, disquieted by the visitor’s intensity. ‘I do not expect him today. If you might return on Monday, if you tell me the nature of your business, I might be able to help.’

  The man seemed to fold in upon himself. ‘I must see him.’

  ‘I am sorry. My father said nothing of expecting a visitor.’

  His dark eyes sparked with anger and, for the first time, Minou realised he must once have been a formidable man.

  ‘And does he tell you everything? I warrant not, for what father would confide every private matter to his daughter?’

  Minou flushed. ‘I did not intend to offend you, Monsieur.’

  But having given vent to his temper, he shrank back into his bones. She had thought him some two score years and ten, but Minou could see now it was only his white hair and lines upon his brow that made him seem so.

  ‘It is I who should beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Minou. It is I who have given offence, and that was not my intention.’

  ‘You gave no offence, so I have taken none. My father has not come to the Bastide today, but if it pleases you to write a letter, I will deliver it.’

  He held up his right hand to show the raw, ruined skin where two of his fingers were missing.

  ‘Alas, I no longer find such communication easy.’

  Minou blushed at her clumsiness. ‘I could write it for you.’

  ‘Thank you, but safest not.’

  ‘Safest?’ She waited, seeing the conflict rage in his eyes, but he did not answer. ‘Will you at least give me your name, Monsieur, so I might tell my father?’

  He smiled. ‘My name is of no value.’

  ‘Very well. Might you tell me the name by which my father might know you for a friend?’

  ‘A friend.’ He paused, then another fleeting smile graced his face. Thought, regret, grief, all reflected there. ‘Bernard told me you had the wit of ten men. Tell him Michel would speak with him. From Toulouse.’

  Then suddenly he tipped his hat and was gone, as quickly as he had appeared.

  Mystified, Minou went back inside.

  ‘Who was that?’ Madame Noubel asked.

  ‘He gave his name as Michel, but only with reluctance, so who’s to say if even that little is true.’

  ‘What was it he wanted?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know,’ Minou said. ‘He claimed pressing business with my father, but his manner was peculiar.’

  Madame Noubel waved her hand. ‘Put it from your mind, Minou. There have been troubles enough for one day. If it’s important, this mysterious Michel will return. If not . . .’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Now, did you mark if the soldiers had gone from outside my premises? We have talked the afternoon away, and I would be home.’

  Still thinking about the visitor, Minou peered out again. ‘They have gone, yes, though Charles is still there keeping watch.’

  ‘Ah, he is a good, if simple, soul,’ Madame Noubel said. ‘Again, thank you. And, don’t forget. Tell Bernard I will call after Mass tomorrow.’

  Minou listened to her footsteps echoing along rue du Marché, then bent to straighten the mat. It was unlikely there would be any more customers at this hour, so she decided to close the shop. It had been a long day. A mist had come in from the mountains and a chill white light had taken hold of the Bastide. The rumble of cartwheels and the clatter of horses’ hooves, all sounds muffled and distorted. Minou put the day’s takings into the strongbox beneath the floorboards, then snuffed out the candles and set off for home.

  The letter with the red lion seal remained, forgotten for now, within the lining of her cloak.

  Scratch, scratch, scratch go my words, the nib of the quill scoring the paper.

  My carriage was waiting at the prison gates. A physician was ready to cauterise and dress his wounds. His severed fingers and poisoned skin. Ointments to soothe – and to confound.

  For a day, the delirium held him like a summer sweat. His words were wild and they spoke of guilt, and of shame. Fear and pain loosen a man’s tongue, but so too can kindness. A kiss, the brush of a hand upon a broken cheek, the promise of care.

  How easily men tumble.

  With my own hand, I gave him wine and I gave him laudanum. I let him glimpse me in my nightshift and with my hair uncovered. I gave him my own kerchief with my initials embroidered on it, to keep the thought of me close. It moved him not. There are those within the boy King’s entourage who prefer the company of their own sex. Perhaps he is one of them.

  No matter. There is beauty in the spilling of blood. A purification.

  Gentleness succeeded where desire could not. Finally, on the third day of my ministrations, he gave me the name of the family I sought.

  By God’s grace, I let him live. It was not a matter of mercy. The voices whispered how, in Toulouse, it would be harder to disguise a death and a body. In the mountains, eyes are blind.

  Joubert. That is all I know, but it is a start.

  Blood calls out to blood. As our Lord taught us, it is through suffering that we are redeemed.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  LA CITÉ

  Minou walked up the hill towards the Porte Narbonnaise. The lamps of La Cité were smudged in the mist behind the walls. An owl, already out to hunt, called from the trees. The brush of a fox’s tail flicked and then vanished in the undergrowth. Minou emptied her mind of the events of the day and thought only of the evening to come. She stepped up onto the drawbridge, nodded a greeting to the watch, then walked under the narrow stone arch and through the gates.

  She was almost home.

  A burst of blue and Minou found herself flying forward off her feet, her breath quite knocked out of her. She threw out her arms to break her fall, then felt the pressure of a hand at her elbow, helping her to her feet.

  ‘Mademoiselle, forgive me. I did not . . .’

  The man’s voice broke of
f so abruptly that Minou raised her head in surprise. Russet-coloured hair and beard, green eyes the colour of spring. And he was staring at her too, with a look of such unwarranted surprise upon his face that she felt herself blush.

  ‘Jij weer,’ he muttered. ‘You . . . Forgive me, are you hurt? Did I hurt you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But it is you,’ he said, looking at her as if he had seen a ghost.

  Minou steadied herself and took a step back.

  ‘I think you mistake me for someone else, Monsieur.’

  To her astonishment, he reached out and traced his fingers down her cheek.

  Minou knew she should reprimand him for his boldness, but yet she could not speak. For a moment longer, he held his glove there, soft against her skin. Then, suddenly, as if coming to his senses, he stepped back.

  ‘I am sorry to have alarmed you, my Lady of the Mists,’ he said. ‘Your servant.’

  He bowed, and was gone.

  One beat of her heart, two. In a daze, Minou watched him stride away towards the Château Comtal until his blue cloak vanished into the white gauze of the mist. Three beats of her heart, four and five. She raised her own hand to where his had rested and caught the lingering scent of the leather. Why had he looked at her as if to commit each of her features to memory? Why did he think she was known to him? Six beats, seven beats, eight. The bells were ringing for Vespers and she was late, but Minou could not go home. Not yet. Not with her thoughts unravelled and her senses so wild.

  On through the silver mist, step by step, she went. Buildings came in and out of view. The cathedral suddenly loomed up before her, like a ghost ship breaking the surface of the sea. A huddle of clerics, black like crows with red-tipped noses in the cold, hurried across Place Saint-Nazaire and into the cathedral to pray. Minou walked on until the turrets and fortifications of the Château Comtal became visible, and wondered how the Seneschal and his household passed these eventide hours during Lent. Were they merry, the chambers filled with laughter and good cheer, or were the corridors silent with pious meditation?